The Chalice of Death: Three Novels of Mystery in Space

by Robert Silverberg

  Myreck drove; or rather, he put the car in motion, and then guided it by deft occasional wrist-flicks on the directional control. They turned south, away from the spaceport, and glided along a broad highway for nearly eight miles, turning eastward sharply into what seemed like a surburban district. Ewing slumped tiredly in his corner of the car, now and then peering out at the neat, even rows of houses, each one surmounted by its own glittering privacy shield.

  At last they pulled up at the side of the road. Ewing was startled to see nothing before them but an empty lot. There were some houses further down the street, and plenty of parking space in front of them; why had Myreck chosen to park here?

  Puzzled, he got out. Myreck stared cautiously in all directions, then took a key made of some luminous yellow metal from his pocket and advanced toward the empty lot, saying, “Welcome to the home of the College of Abstract Science.”

  “Where?”

  Myreck pointed to the lot. “Here, of course.”

  Ewing squinted; something was wrong about the air above the lot. It had a curious pinkish tinge, and seemed to be shimmering, as if heat-waves were rising from the neatly tended grass.

  Myreck held his key in front of him, stepped into the lot and groped briefly in mid-air, as if searching for an invisible keyhole. And indeed he seemed to find it; the key vanished for three-quarters of its length.

  A building appeared.

  It was a glistening pink dome, much like the other houses in the neighborhood; but it had a curious impermanence about it. It seemed to be fashioned of dream-stuff. The lipless Earther grasped him firmly by the arm and pushed him forward, into the house. The street outside disappeared.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Ewing said. “How do you work it?”

  Myreck smiled. “The house is three microseconds out of phase with the rest of the street. It always exists just a fraction of an instant in Absolute Past, not enough to cause serious temporal disturbance but enough to conceal it from our many enemies.”

  Goggle-eyed, Ewing said, “You have temporal control?”

  The Earther nodded. “The least abstract of our sciences. A necessary defense.”

  Ewing felt stunned. Gazing at the diminutive Earther with new-found respect, he thought, This is incredible! Temporal control had long been deemed theoretically possible, ever since the publication of Blackmuir’s equations more than a thousand years before. But Corwin had had little opportunity for temporal research, and such that had been done had seemed to imply that Blackmuir’s figures were either incorrect or else technologically un-implementable. And for these overdecorated Earthers to have developed them! Unbelievable!

  He stared through a window at the quiet street outside. In Absolute Time, he knew, the scene he was observing was three microseconds in the future, but the interval was so minute that for all practical purposes it made no difference to the occupants of the house. It made a great difference to anyone outside who wanted to enter illegally, though; there was no way to enter a house that did not exist in present time.

  “This must involve an enormous power-drain,” Ewing said.

  “On the contrary. The entire operation needs no more than a thousand watts to sustain itself. Our generator supplies fifteen-amp current. It’s astonishingly inexpensive, though we never could have met the power demands had we tried to project the house an equivalent distance into the future. But there’s time to talk of all this later. You must be exhausted. Come.”

  Ewing was led into a comfortably-furnished salon lined with microreels and music disks. Plans were pinwheeling in his head, nearly enough to make him forget the fatigue that overwhelmed his body. If these Earthers have temporal control, he thought, and if I can induce them to part with their device or its plans …

  It’s pretty far-fetched. But we need something far-fetched to save us now. It might work.

  Myreck said, “Will you sit here?”

  Ewing climbed into a relaxing lounger. The Earther dialed him a drink and slipped a music disk into the player. Vigorous music filled the room: foursquare harmonics, simple and yet ruggedly powerful. He liked the sort of sound it made—a direct emotional appeal.

  “What music is that?”

  “Beethoven,” Myreck said. “One of our ancients. Would you like me to relax you?”

  “Please.”

  Ewing felt Myreck’s hands at the base of his skull once again. He waited. Myreck’s hands probed the sides of his neck, lifted, jabbed down sharply. For one brief moment Ewing felt all sensation leave his body; then physical awareness returned, but without consciousness of the pain.

  “That feels wonderful,” he said. “It’s as if Firnik never worked me over at all, except for these bruises I have as souvenirs.”

  “They’ll vanish shortly. Somatic manifestations usually do once the pain-source is removed.”

  He leaned back, exulting in the sensation of feeling no pain as if he had spent all his life, and not merely the past three of four days, in a state of hellish physical discomfort. The music was fascinating, and the drink he held warmed him. It was comforting to know that somewhere in the city of Valloin was a sanctuary where he was free from Firnik for as long as he chose.

  The Earthers were filing in now—eleven or twelve of them, shy little men with curious artificial deformities of diverse sorts. Myreck said, “There are the members of the College currently in residence. Others are doing research elsewhere. I don’t know what sort of colleges you have on Corwin, but ours is one only in the most ancient sense of the word. We draw no distinctions between master and pupil here. We all learn equally, from one another.”

  “I see. And which of you developed the temporal control system?”

  “Oh, none of us did that. Powlis was responsible, a hundred years ago. We’ve simply maintained the apparatus and modified it.”

  “A hundred years?” Ewing was appalled. “It’s a hundred years since the art was discovered and you’re still lurking in holes and corners, letting the Sirians push you out of control of your own planet?”

  Ewing realized he had spoken too strongly. The Earthers looked abashed; some of them were almost at the verge of tears. They’re like children, he thought wonderingly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  A slim Earther with surgically-augmented shoulders said, “Is it true that your world is under attack by alien beings from a far galaxy?”

  “Yes. We expect attack in ten years.”

  “And will you be able to defeat them?”

  Ewing shrugged. “We’ll try. They’ve conquered the first four worlds they’ve attacked, including two that were considerably stronger than we are. We don’t have much hope of winning. But we’ll try.”

  Sadly Myreck said, “We had been wondering if it would be possible for us to leave Earth and emigrate to your world soon. But if you face destruction …” He let his voice trail off.

  “Emigrate to Corwin? Why would you do that?”

  “The Sirians soon will rule here. They will put us to work for them, or else kill us. We’re safe as long as we remain in this building—but we must go out from time to time.”

  “You have temporal control. You could duck back into yesterday to avoid pursuit.”

  Myreck shook his head. “Paradoxes are caused. Multiplication of personality. We fear these things, and we would hesitate to bring them about.”

  Shrugging, Ewing said, “You have to take chances. Caution is healthy only when not carried to excess.”

  “We had hoped,” said a dreamy-eyed Earther sitting in the corner, “that we could arrange with you for a passage to Corwin. On the ship you came on, possibly.”

  “It was a one-man ship.”

  Disappointment was evident. “In that case, perhaps you could send a larger ship for us. We have none, you see. Earth stopped building ships two centuries ago, and gradually most of the ones we had were either sold or fell into disuse. The Sirians now control such industries on Earth, and refuse to let us have ships. So the galaxy w
e once roamed is closed to us.”

  Ewing wished there were some way he could help these futile, likable little dreamers. But no solutions presented themselves. “Corwin has very few ships itself,” he said. “Less than a dozen capable of making an interstellar journey with any reasonable number of passengers. And any ships we might have would certainly be requisitioned by the military for use in the coming war against the Klodni. I don’t see any way we could manage it. Besides,” he added, “even if I left Earth tomorrow, I wouldn’t be back on Corwin for nearly a year. And it would take another year for me to return to Earth with a ship for you. Do you think you could hold out against the Sirians that long?”

  “Possibly,” Myreck said, but he sounded doubtful. There was silence a moment. Then the Scholar said, “Please understand that we would be prepared to pay for our passage. Not in money, perhaps, but in service. Possibly we are in command of certain scientific techniques not yet developed on your world. In that case you might find our emigration quite valuable.”

  Ewing considered that. Certainly the Earthers had plenty to offer—the temporal-control device, foremost among them. But he could easily picture the scene upon his return to Corwin, as he tried to get the Council to approve use of a major interstellar freighter to bring refugee scientists from the Earth that had failed to help them. It would never work. If they only had some super-weapon—

  But, of course, if they had a super-weapon they would have no need of fleeing the Sirians. Round and round, with no solution.

  He moistened his lips. “Perhaps I can think of something,” he said. “The cause isn’t quite hopeless yet. But meanwhile—”

  Myreck’s eyes brightened. “Yes?”

  “I’m quite curious about your temporal-displacement equipment. Would it be possible for me to examine it?”

  Myreck exchanged what seemed like a dubious glance with several of his comrades. After a moment’s hesitation he returned his attention to Ewing and said, in a slightly shaky voice, “I don’t see why not.”

  They don’t fully trust me, Ewing thought. They’re half afraid of the bold, vigorous man from the stars. Well, I don’t blame them.

  Myreck rose and beckoned to Ewing. “Come this way. The laboratory is downstairs.”

  Ewing followed, and the other Earthers tagged along behind. They proceeded down a winding staircase into a room below, brightly lit with radiance streaming from every molecule of the walls and floor. In the center of the room stood a massive block of machinery, vaguely helical in structure, with an enormous pendulum held in suspension in its center. A platform stood at one side. Elsewhere in the room were metering devices and less identifiable types of scientific equipment.

  “This is not the main machine,” Myreck said. “In the deepest level of the building we keep the big generator that holds us out of time-phase with relation to the outside world. I could show it to you, but this machine is considerably more interesting.”

  “What does this one do?”

  “It effects direct temporal transfer on a small-scale level. The theory behind it is complex, but the basic notion is extraordinarily simple. You see—”

  “Just a moment,” Ewing said, interrupting. An idea had struck him which was almost physically staggering in its impact. “Tell me: this machine could send a person into the immediate Absolute Past, couldn’t it?”

  Myreck frowned. “Why, yes. Yes. But we could never run the risk of—”

  Again Ewing did not let the Earther finish his statement. “This I find very interesting,” he broke in. He moistened his suddenly dry lips. “Would you say it was theoretically possible to send—say, me—back in time to—oh, about Twoday evening of this week?”

  “It could be done, yes,” Myreck admitted.

  Apulse pounded thunderously in Ewing’s skull. His limbs felt cold and his fingers seemed to be quivering. But he fought down the feeling of fear. Obviously, the journey had been taken once, and successfully. He would take it again.

  “Very well, then. I request a demonstration of the machine. Send me back to Twoday evening.”

  “But—”

  “I insist,” Ewing said determinedly. He knew now who his strange masked rescuer had been.

  Chapter Ten

  A look of blank horror appeared on Myreck’s pale face. His thin lips moved a moment without producing sound. Finally he managed to say, in a hoarse rasp. “You can’t be serious. There would be a continuum doubling if you did that. Two Baird Ewings existing conterminously, you see. And—”

  “Is there any danger in it?” Ewing asked.

  Myreck looked baffled. “We don’t know. It’s never been done. We’ve never dared to try it. The consequences might be uncontrollable. A sudden explosion of galactic scope, for all we know.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Ewing said. He knew there had been no danger that first time. He was certain now that his rescuer had been an earlier Ewing, one who had preceded him through the time-track, reached this point in time, and doubled back to become his rescuer, precisely as he was about to do. His head swam. He refused to let himself dwell on the confusing, paradoxical aspects of the situation.

  “I don’t see how we could permit such a dangerous thing to take place,” Myreck said mildly. “You put us in a most unpleasant position. The risks are too great. We don’t dare.”

  A spanner lay within Ewing’s reach. He snatched it up, hefting it ominously, and said, “I’m sorry to have to threaten you, but you’d never be able to follow me if I tried to explain why I have to do this. Either put me back to Twonight or I’ll begin smashing things.”

  Myreck’s hands moved in a little dance of fear and frustration. “I’m sure you wouldn’t consider such a violent act, Mr. Ewing. We know you’re a reasonable man. Surely you wouldn’t—”

  “Surely I would!” His hands gripped the shaft tightly; sweat rolled down his forehead. He knew that his bluff would not be called, that ultimately they would yield, since they had yielded, once—when? When this scene had become played out for the first time. First? Ewing felt cold uneasiness within.

  Limply Myreck shook his head up and down. “Very well,” the little man said. “We will do as you ask. We have no choice.” His face expressed an emotion as close to contempt as was possible for him—a sort of mild, apologetic disdain. “If you will mount this platform, please …”

  Ewing put the spanner down and suspiciously stepped forward onto the platform. He sensed the oppressive bulk of the machine around and above him. Myreck made painstaking adjustments on a control panel beyond his range of vision, while the other Earthers gathered in a frightened knot to watch the proceedings.

  “How do I make the return trip to Fourday?” Ewing asked suddenly.

  Myreck shrugged. “By progressing through forward time at a rate of one second per second. We have no way of returning you to this time or place at any accelerated rate.” He looked imploringly at Ewing. “I beg you not to force me to do this. We have not fully worked out the logic of time travel yet; we don’t understand—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Somehow. Sometime.”

  He smiled with a confidence he did not feel. He was setting foot into the darkest of realms—yesterday. He was armed with one comforting thought: that by venturing all, he might possibly save Corwin. By risking nothing, he would lose all.

  He waited. He realized he was expecting a crackle of energy, an upwelling flare of some supernatural force that would sweep him backward across the matrix of time, but none of these phenomena materialized. There was merely the gentle murmur of Myreck’s voice as he called off equations and made compensations on his control panel; then came a final “Ready,” and the Earther’s hand reached for the ultimate switch.

  “There’ll probably be a certain amount of spacial dislocation,” Myreck was saying. “I hope for our sakes that you emerge in the open, and not—”

  The sentence was never finished. Ewing felt no sensation whatever, but the laboratory and the tense group of Earthers van
ished as if blotted out by the hand of the cosmos, and he found himself hovering a foot in the air in the midst of a broad greensward, on a warm, bright afternoon.

  The hovering lasted only an instant; he tumbled heavily to the ground, sprawling forward on his hands and knees. He rose hurriedly to his feet. His knee stung for an instant as he straightened up; he glanced down and saw that he had scraped it, on a stone in the field, causing a slight abrasion.

  From nearby came a childish giggle. A high voice said, “Look at the funny man doing handsprings!”

  “Such a remark is impolite,” came a stuffy, mechanical-sounding response. “One does not loudly call attention to eccentric behavior of any kind.”

  Ewing turned and saw a boy of about eight being admonished by a tall robot governess. “But where did the man come from?” the boy persisted. “He just dropped out of the sky, didn’t he? Didn’t you see?”

  “My attention was elsewhere. But people do not drop out of the sky. Not in this day and age in the City of Valloin.”

  Chuckling to himself, Ewing walked away. It was good to know he was still in the City of Valloin, at any rate; he wondered if the boy was going to continue asking about the man who had dropped from the sky. That governess didn’t seem to have any humor circuits. He pitied the boy.

  He was in a park; that much was obvious. In the distance he saw a children’s playground and Something that might have been a zoological garden. Concessions sold refreshments nearby. He walked toward the closest of these booths, where a bright-haired young man was purchasing a balloon for a boy at his side from a robot vender.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m a stranger in Valloin, and I’m afraid I’ve got myself lost.”